On Thin Ice
by Xelaric the Nobody
Summary: AU. Alfred never thought he would ever become a figure skater. But that one fateful day at the rink changed his life. Now training for the World Championship, Alfred must focus on what lies ahead of him. But how can he focus when his agent's, Ivan's, gorgeous cousin is competing against him? AmericaxOC
1. That Fateful Day

"Alfred, get your lazy ass out of bed!" Arthur called from downstairs.

The blond rolled over onto his back. Without opening his eyes, Alfred yelled back. "It's too early!"

"No, it is not! It's 10:30 in the morning, blast it!"

This was how the two greeted each other nearly every day. You can totally feel the love.

Groaning, Alfred rolled over onto his stomach, his face buried in his pillow. He groaned again and without lifting his head up, felt around on his nightstand for his glasses. The blond sat up right and pushed his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He slowly swung his legs over the edge of his bed and got up.

_ Thank God it's Saturday_, the nineteen-year-old thought groggily. Al reached the top of the stairs and carefully descended them since he had a habit of tripping down them just after he woke up. When he reached the landing, he saw that Arthur was standing in the kitchen.

Arthur was his foster father for nearly fourteen—or was it fifteen?—years. Either way, the blond Brit had been taking care of him ever since he was very little.

"It's a miracle you even got out of bed before noon," Arthur rolled his eyes as Al walked into the kitchen. "I made some breakfast. Do you want anything?"

The blond teenager looked at him. "How about no." Alfred glanced sideways towards the pantry, grabbed a cereal box, and proceeded to get a bowl and such. Arthur sighed as Alfred sat down at the table with his bowl of cereal. The blond took a spoonful of the cereal into his mouth and chewed.

"I don't poison the food I make, you know?" the Brit told his foster son.

"Sure tastes like it," Alfred mumbled around a mouthful of cereal. Arthur rolled his eyes again while Al continued to shovel his breakfast into his mouth. When he finished, Al pushed his chair away from the table, stood up, and walked into the other room to play some Playstation. He settled himself on the couch and grabbed the controller. The home screen for Call of Duty; Black Ops lit up the screen, and in no time, Al was screaming at the TV and hypothetically shooting computer generated figures.

Alfred faintly heard footsteps from behind him. He partially glanced over his shoulder to see his younger foster brother, (Arthur's biological son) Peter. He walked around the couch and looked to the blond nineteen-year-old. "May I play with you?" Peter asked with a smile on his face. Al shrugged a shoulder, and the little blond boy snatched up a controller and joined the game.

About twenty minutes after Peter joined the game, Arthur walked into the living room with a look of disapproval set in his features. The Brit walked in front of Alfred and Peter to block their view from the TV screen. Al tried to reposition himself so that he could see, but Arthur moved accordingly. The nineteen-year-old whined and paused the game.

"What do you want for my life?" Al complained as Arthur gave him the infamous look. Alfred slumped his posture on the couch. He knew he was in for a lecture.

"A young man your age shouldn't be holed up in the house all day," Arthur started. "And I can't be supporting you all your life, you know. If and when you graduate college, you are not moving back in here. You'll have to find a way to make a living." Arthur noticed that Peter had continued the game and took the controller out of his hands. "And what have I told you about letting Peter play these kinds of video games?"

The blond sighed. For the last few months, Arthur had been frequently reminding Al to go out and find a job, he needed to make his own money; you know, basic parenting stuff. However, finding a job was not a priority on Alfred's list. He would admit that he was too lazy to search for a wanted ad or help wanted signs in the windows of shops that he might have passed.

"Get off my back, old man," Al groaned as he slouched even more on the couch. "I'll get a job when I want to get a job."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. "And when do you think that'll be? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? You need to do more with your life than watch the telly and play video games all day."

"Stop nagging me. I'll get out of the house for the day if you want me out of your sight so bad."

The blond Brit didn't say anything in response, he just gave Al a look that said, "Fine." With that, Peter shut off the TV, Arthur walked out of the room, and Al got to his feet. The blond boy was about to say something to Al, but he left the room before he could say anything. He trudged up the stairs and shut his bedroom door behind him. Alfred changed out of his sweatpants and t-shirt, threw on a pair of jeans and a long sleeve shirt, and crossed over to his closet on the opposite side of the room. He slid the closet door open and retrieved his pair of ice skates. After he tied the laces together and threw them over his shoulder, Al descended the stairs again.

The blond nineteen-year-old turned towards the entryway of the house and grabbed his jacket off of the hook it hung on. Alfred fished the keys out of the pocket and slipped into his jacket.

"Are you going skating?" asked a British accented voice behind him. Alfred turned around to see Peter standing not three feet away. "Can I come with you, pretty please?"

Al sighed. "Next time, I promise."

* * *

The drive to the ice rink was quiet. He found a parking spot without a problem and popped open the trunk to retrieve his skates and his hockey gear. He slung the bag over his shoulder and proceeded to walk towards the building.

There weren't much people there, even though it was nearly noon on a Saturday. That didn't phase Alfred though; more room for him to move out on the ice.

The blond stopped and set his stuff down near a bench so that he could put his skates on. He shoved his sneakers into his bag, grabbed his hockey stick, and made his way to the rink. Thankfully he wasn't the only one with hockey on his mind; five or six other guys around his age or a bit younger glided around on the ice with hockey sticks in hand. One of them noticed Alfred with his own stick, and he motioned the blond out onto the ice. Al took that guards off of his skates and slid across the ice to greet them.

They split into teams of three and played a few friendly games of hockey. Alfred noticed that there were a few people in the stands around the rink, watching the skaters and the hockey players alike, but one man stood out to him. He had dusty blond hair, and purple-blue eyes stared back at Alfred. The man was easily the tallest in the small crowd, and he wore a long coat and scarf. What made the blond nineteen-year-old _really_ uncomfortable, was that he was ninety nine percent sure that the man was watching him. Alfred tried to shake it off and focused on the current game of hockey.

A game and a half later, most of the guys that Alfred was playing with started to leave. One by one, the rink started to clear out, as did the people sitting in the stands. Only two or three people were left sitting in the stands, including the man with the purple-blue eyes. Alfred furtively glanced over at him, but quickly looked away when he noticed the man looking at him again.

_Geez, this guy's starting to freak me out_, Al thought as he skated over to the door that led off of the rink. He placed his hockey stick next to his bag and returned to the ice. Only a girl of about twelve and who Al assumed to be her older brother were left skating on the ice. Alfred shrugged a shoulder to himself. _Ah, what the heck? Doing a little skating wouldn't kill me would it? It'd be good practice for hockey anyways..._

The blond nineteen-year-old glided halfway around the perimeter of the rink and skidded to a stop. Al remembered that when he was younger that he had taken figure skating lessons to help him with his stamina and technique on the ice for ice hockey. Alfred tried to remember what he had been taught, but it felt like it had been such a long time ago. The blond started to glide slowly and gathered speed. He attempted a double toe loop jump, but stumbled on his landing and fell to the ice.

_Figures I would fall on my ass_, Al sighed as he carefully rose to his feet. He dusted off the bits of ice that clung to his sweatshirt and decided to try some other tricks. The blond picked up speed again and started to spin. Al started off with a basic camel spin, his one leg out behind him as he spun, but attempted to transition into a sitting spin. The blond sighed in relief his body cooperated with his brain. He slowed to a stop and rose to his full height.

Alfred continued to remember some of the basic jumps and spins from when he was younger. Some tricks were more successful than others. He even attempted a simple step sequence, in which he basically danced across the ice in a certain way. Although he nearly tripped halfway across the rink, he regained his composure and made it to the other side.

Clapping rang out over the silent rink, and Alfred spun on his heels to face the source of the noise. The man who had been watching him from the stands was now standing at the divider between the ice and the regular floor. The man stopped clapping after a few moments, looked at Al, and motioned him over to him. After a moment of hesitation, the nineteen-year-old skated over to the divider.

"Can I help you with something?" Alfred asked rather rudely. The man just continued to smile that little smile of his.

"I have been watching you skate from the stands." He had a thick Russian accent, and Alfred almost couldn't understand him.

"Yeah, I kinda noticed that, like, three and a half hours ago," Alfred responded flatly.

The Russian didn't seem phased by this outburst. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Alfred Jones...why?"

The man pulled a small card out of his pocket and handed it over to Al. The blond took it and looked at it warily. When he read it over, he looked up at the Russian and quirked an eyebrow at him. The card stared that this man's name was Ivan Braginski and that he was a coach-slash-talent agent for figure skating.

Iva smiled. "I have been watching you skate, and you have potential, kid. And who knows? I could turn you into a world-renowned figure skater." Al looked up at Ivan to see if he was actually saying that Alfred could possibly be a figure skater. The Russian showed no signs of lying, and Al pocketed the business card.

"So, what you're basically saying is, I could have a future in figure skating?" Alfred reiterated, just to make sure he was following Ivan. The purple-blue eyed man nodded. Alfred furrowed his brow. "Just to be clear, I can make money doing this, right?"

"Of course," Ivan nodded again. "You could make a fortune. Just call that number on the card if you'd like to be trained. I do not need an answer right away, but soon would be nice." And with that, the Russian walked away.

Alfred watched him leave the rink until the doors obscured his view of the tall dusty blond man. Al held onto the card in his pocket as he skated over to the door. He sat down on the bench so that he could change out of his skates and into his sneakers. He grabbed his bag of hockey gear and his stick and made towards the parking lot.

When the blond got into his car, he pulled out the business card and read it over again.

_If I call Ivan and I can get the job, then Arthur would get off my case of supporting myself and all that other crap_, he thought as he turned the card over in his hands.

"Maybe I will give you a call, Ivan."


	2. Decisions, Decisions

**A/N: Hi guys! Sorry I didn't leave a note in the first chapter, I forgot to type one. But anyways, this is actually my first Hetalia fanfiction, so I might not get everyone's personality exactly right. Hope you guys like the chapter! :)**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia_ _or any of its characters. I only own my_ _OC_.**

* * *

Alfred walked through the front door around three in the afternoon, which meant he spent nearly four hours at the ice rink. The blond set his hockey gear under the coat rack and shrugged off his jacket.

"Dad! Alfred's back!" Peter shouted in his British accent as he rounded a corner to greet the nineteen-year-old. Peter looked up at Al. "We thought something might have happened to you since you didn't call."

Arthur came down the stairs and turned into the entryway, his face full of relief. "Where have you been this whole time? At the rink?"

"Well yeah, where else would I be?" Alfred answered with a question. The blond pulled the business card out of his jacket pocket and looked at it.

"What have you got there?" Arthur asked and took a step closer to Al. He showed the card to his foster father with a bit of a grin on his face.

"Oh, this dude was, like, watching me skate for a while and he said I had potential for being a figure skater," Alfred explained nonchalantly. "And he said I could make cash money."

Arthur quirked a thick eyebrow and took the card from Al's hands to look at it better. "A figure skater, Al? Are you sure?" The Brit turned the card over in his fingers, and then he looked up at Alfred. "I mean, you'd earn a decent amount of money, but how would that work out with school?"

He hadn't given that a thought. Alfred stood in front of Arthur, thinking for a moment. "Well, it's only college," the blond started. "It's not like college is _mandatory_. Besides, I haven't given the guy a call yet, which means I don't get the position until I call him and he trains me with his other students."

"_Only_ college? Alfred, college could do so much for you," Arthur countered. "But seeing as you most likely won't listen to me...it's really up to you. If you really want to be a figure skater, then go for it." The Brit placed the card back in Al's hand and turned away. When Arthur had disappeared around the corner, Peter looked up at Alfred with a huge grin on his face.

"A figure skater? That sounds like fun! I wish I could skate as well as you can, Alfred. Do you think I'd be able to be a figure skater too one day?" Al glanced down at Peter, a small smile on his face. The nineteen-year-old ruffled Peter's hair.

"Hey, who knows? Maybe you'll be even better than I am."

* * *

The rest of Al's day consisted of nothing really exciting. After he had gotten home, he pondered over whether he should call Ivan or not. The blond sat on the couch in the living room, staring at the card, turning it over, and almost reaching for the phone several times. To get his mind off of this life-changing decision, Alfred proceeded to play Black Ops on his Playstation for the second time that day. He slid the mic over his ear and started yelling at his fellow players. When his avatar died (more than once) his voice rose and he yelled some very colorful words at the computer generated figures and people on the mic. Arthur yelled at him to pipe down and to not use such language in front of a child. After that, Al basically rage quit and picked another game to play.

Now he was playing Skyrim; Elder Scrolls. He maneuvered his character through some random village, and some of the CPUs told his avatar not to kill their chickens for whatever weird reason. Of course, with Alfred being himself, he killed one of the chickens anyways and soon the CPU village formed a riot and violently tried to kill his character.

Alfred threw his head back and groaned. "Stupid freakin' retards; so what? I killed a God damn chicken, you freakin' have, like, twenty more! What's the big deal if I killed one stupid chicken!? You know what, screw this, I'm not playing this anymore."

Just as he shut off the game, Arthur yelled from the other room, "What did I tell you about swearing, Alfred!?" The teenager rolled his eyes and stood up from the couch. He glanced at the clock and was surprised to find that it was past nine o'clock at night and that he hadn't eaten since before he left the house. Al's stomach growled quite loudly, and he made his way to the kitchen.

He looked around the kitchen for all but two seconds, and complained. "Ugh, _Arthuuuur_, why do you suck at making_ foooood_?"

Al hit his head against the wall and snatched up a bag of chips. The blond carried them up to his room. Alfred flopped down onto his bed, bag of chips in hand, and turned on the small TV that sat on top of his dresser. He lazily flipped through several different channels until he landed on one that broadcasted figure skating tournaments.

Alfred stopped flipping the channels when he saw the skater gliding effortlessly across the ice. The blond's eyes were fixed to the screen until the routine ended. The man skated off the ice and the next skater entered the rink. Looking away from the screen for a moment, Al pulled out the card that Ivan had given him.

Alfred decided that he wanted to train to become a figure skater. He wanted to be inspiring to others younger than him, to get out on the ice and perform. It was too late to give Ivan a call now, though; he would just have to wait until morning.

Alfred continued to watch the rest of the tournament. There were some great routines that Al had loved to watch every second of, and there were some routines that made him hope that the judges knew the performer personally, because they didn't do so well. About an hour and a half or so later, the program ended. It turned out that one of Alfred's favorite skaters got awarded first place, and the other two he didn't like so much. His mouth gaped in a yawn as the next program started. He struggled to stay awake, but Alfred ended up falling asleep just as the first skater glided across the ice.


	3. And so it Begins

**A/N: Well, this took much longer than I would've liked but it's updated now, yay! Enjoy :D**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I only own my OC._**

* * *

It was nearly three in the afternoon the next day, and Alfred still hadn't called Ivan back. The blond had looked at the business card and phone numerous times that day, but couldn't muster up the will to call. He was about to reach over the arm of the sofa for the phone, but Peter walked into the living room, holding up two PlayStation controls. His little foster brother handed him one, and the two of them started up the console.

Peter clicked on the icon that opened up into Ratchet and Clank: Up Your Arsenal. Al's foster brother had gotten first player which meant Al was stuck playing as the little robot named Clank. Al hadn't played Ratchet and Clank since he was at least seven, so he was bound to enlighten Peter with his colorful vocabulary at any given moment.

Peter maneuvered the cat-like character Ratchet around on the platform, swinging around his weapon which resembled a wrench. Al was trying to figure out the controls when he accidentally fell off the platform, leading to the poor little robot's computer generated death.

"Alfred, you have to pay attention to what you're doing!" Peter sighed as the round started again.

Al growled in exasperation. "It's not my fault the dumbass robot isn't fighting."

"Alfred!" He heard Arthur call from the other room.

_How does he manage to hear me curse _every single time_?_ Al sighed and attempted to fight the weird looking mutant ducks.

An hour or so passed and Peter had started to grow bored of the game. He saved and shut down the PlayStation. The clock read 4:17. Al bit his lip and glanced at the phone for what must've been the thirty seventh time that day. The nineteen-year-old fished the business card out of his pocket and successfully grabbed the phone. This time, he was actually going to call Ivan and not wimp out at the last second because he wasn't sure about this whole thing.

_Screw it, I'll just call him_, Alfred encouraged himself inwardly and dialed the number.

"I assume you would like to be a figure skater, da?"

Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin when Ivan had picked up on the other end. No hello, no greeting...and how had Ivan known it was him?

The nineteen-year-old shook his head and recomposed himself. He was about to respond, when the Russian beat him to it.

"Great. Why don't you come by the rink around six?"

* * *

Al zipped up his jacket as he climbed out of his car, his black ice skates in hand. It was only about ten to six, but the sky was beginning to fade into a dusky purple. The blond teenager made his way up to the building's entrance and breathed a sigh of relief as the heaters warmed his numbing fingertips.

He started his way over to the rink's doors and was surprised to find more than just Ivan in the rink. There were three skaters on the ice; all of them seemed to be around Al's age, or just a bit younger. Ivan's back was to Alfred, so the blond teenager walked up to the Russian and looked out at the rink.

"I am glad you decided to come," Ivan said as Alfred set down his skates. The nineteen-year-old shrugged in indifference and looked out onto the ice. The first skater he saw was a girl who vaguely reminded him of Lady Gaga. She had waist length, dusty blonde hair, a shade or two darker than Ivan's. Her eyes were a dull, dark blue. She had a white bow in her hair and was dressed in a track suit, gliding across the ice with ease.

Alfred pointed to her. "Who's the chick that kinda looks like Lady Gaga?"

"That is my little sister, Natalia," Ivan responded, and Alfred was somewhat oblivious to the tone of his voice which sounded the slightest bit threatening.

"Is she secretly Lady Gaga in disguise?"

"No...I assure you, Natalia is not a pop star known for wearing unconventional clothing and attire."

Alfred decided to get a good look at the remaining two skaters. One was a guy who looked achingly familiar. He just couldn't place where it was he knew this guy from; he had dark blue eyes and wavy blonde hair that nearly reached his shoulders. A pair of square-framed glasses sat on his nose. Alfred's focus didn't seem to stay with this guy too long as the last skater turned around, revealing her face to Alfred.

She was now facing both Ivan and himself. She was significantly shorter than the blond boy out on the ice, with shoulder-length white-blonde hair. Her eyes were the same blue-purple as Ivan's eyes, and her frame was very small, but strongly built. She too wore a track suit like Natalia.

Alfred had to clench his jaw to keep it from dropping. He felt his face burn as he pointed to her and asked, "And who is that _very_ good looking chick?"

The blond nineteen-year-old didn't seem to notice Ivan balling up his hands into fists. "That would be Anastasia, my younger cousin."

"Well, she is hella hot," Alfred leaned his head against his hand. The two watched the three skaters for the next five minutes, and within that time, Ivan imagined killing the very up-front teen twenty times in twenty different ways. If this was what he was going to be dealing with for God knows how long, Ivan would have to learn to control his over-protective nature.

"So, what programs would I be preforming in in tournaments?" Alfred asked, turning his attention away from Anastasia, Natalia, and the other blond teenager.

Ivan looked to him out of the corner of his eyes. "At first, you will most likely be competing for the ice dance-short dance or the ice dance-free dance programs. Both programs, however, require a partner. And Natalia needs a new one, because she too is preforming in either one of those programs."

Alfred furrowed his brow. "Well, what happened to her previous partner?"

"He...well, he unfortunately will not be able to skate ever again," Ivan responded, shuddering slightly. Alfred blinked. He suddenly grew very scared for himself.

"Wait, he's not—" Ivan started to walk away, so Al started to walk after him. "She didn't kill him did she?!" At this, Ivan only walked faster. The blond nineteen-year-old eventually caught up to him and was horrified when Natalia skated over to the door to greet the two of them.

Al tried to say something to Ivan, but he totally disregarded the blond teen.

"Natalia, this is Alfred." Al but his lip to keep from cursing under his breath. Natalia fixed him with narrowed eyes. Scary wasn't the right word to describe her; she was more intimidating, Alfred decided. She stuck out her hand, and he nearly jumped out of his skin for the second time that day.

"Nice to meet you, Alfred," Natalia said, though it was hard to understand at first what she had said because she had a thick Russian accent as well. Al cautiously shook her hand, and before he could let go, Natalia grasped his hand extremely tight, wrenched him forward and whispered, "If we so much as get second place in _anything_, you will end up just like my last partner. Are we clear?"

She let go of his hand, and Alfred quickly stepped back, nodding. "C-crystal."

With that, she returned to the ice. Alfred could've sworn he saw Ivan's shoulders relax as soon as she skated away.

"Okay, so why do I get stuck with her? Why can't..." Al realized he didn't know the male skater's name. "Why can't _he_ be Natalia's skate partner?"

Ivan squared his shoulders. "Because Anastasia and Matt skate and work well together. And saying that Matt is deathly terrified of her is a huge understatement."

_I don't blame him_, Al thought. He glanced at Matt and Anastasia. They were practicing a lift that Al couldn't quite remember what it was called. Matt gently brought her down, and they exchanged a few words.

"Did you hear me, Alfred?"

"What?"

Ivan sighed, but smiled that little smile he used yesterday. "I said that since both Matt and Natalia are going to be attending their classes, Anastasia will be here tomorrow to train with you."

Alfred looked up at him in surprise, looked to the white-blonde haired girl, pointed to her and faced Ivan again. "You mean, she's going to be with me—training with me—_all_ day tomorrow?"

"That is what I said, da?"

The blond teenager stole another glance at her. A smirk curled his lips. "What time should I get here then?"


End file.
